


Good Intentions

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Confessions, Engagement, First Kiss, Fix-It, Hurt Crowley, Kink Meme, M/M, Misunderstandings, Presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: After the failed Armageddon, Crowley is being bothered by the amorous attentions of those he'd tempted before, and those tempted by him. But he's retired now, so Aziraphale decides to buy him an engagement ring as a clever ruse to fend off their attentions. How could that possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 222
Kudos: 1073
Collections: GO Getting Together, Good Omens (Complete works), Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. Chapter 1

It certainly hadn't escaped Aziraphale's notice that over the years Crowley has helped him out of a number of awkward situations. That he's always had the ability to show up whenever Aziraphale is feeling particularly lonely, or overwhelmed, or celebratory, to take him out for drinks, or entertainment, or a satisfying meal, so he can vent his frustrations or share his good fortune, or to simply enjoy each other's company. In fact, Crowley has been a constant source of support, even when Aziraphale wasn't aware that he needed it, even when he rebuffed it. Long before they were allowed to admit how much they truly meant to each other, Crowley had been showing it repeatedly, for years, expecting nothing in return. 

Crowley has been, it has to be said, a much better friend than Aziraphale deserved.

It's a fact that's been weighing on him heavily, and since the failed Armageddon he's been trying desperately to think of some way to make it up to him. Or perhaps, now they're free to spend as much time together as they like, a variety of small ways he can make it up to him, to show that he cares deeply for him in return. Crowley doesn't make it easy, of course, he's very independent, and often secretive, and he refuses to admit when he needs help. Not to mention he views acts of kindness and unexpected gifts with deep suspicion.

Aziraphale has been mostly frustrated as to where to start.

Until one morning Crowley had complained, over a particularly good carrot cake, that since he'd left Hell's employ he'd found it hard to shake the amorous attentions of both those he'd tempted before, and those familiar enough with his human identity that they assumed he would be open to what he termed 'bloody aggressive flirtation.'

Aziraphale had actually been witness to several of these instances recently. If Crowley wasn't concentrating on remaining unnoticed, strange men and women would regularly encroach on the demon's personal space, to insist that he take their phone number, or join them at parties - or, if they were feeling particularly bold, to proposition him outright.

Quite aside from the rudeness of such interruptions, Aziraphale has also found himself personally irritated by how little it seems to matter to them that Crowley is currently socially engaged with him.

Crowley has admitted that he finds using miracles to send them all on their way wasteful. 'How many times do I have to say no? It's not like they even count on my quota any more, since I'm no longer an agent of Hell,' he'd grumbled while stabbing the crumbly, deliciously moist cake in a way that it really hadn't deserved.

Aziraphale had felt duty bound to help him, and had put his rather considerable brain to the challenge.

Two weeks later he invites Crowley out for lunch. It really is an invitation as well, properly handwritten on stiff card, and miracled straight to his flat in Mayfair. 

He takes a seat in the rather delightful restaurant he's discovered just recently, it's situated next to a florist and he thinks Crowley might appreciate that. The gift he'd chosen is tucked carefully into his jacket pocket. He doesn't get to buy things for the demon very often, and it seems like they should make an occasion out of it. 

Crowley arrives ten minutes early, and Aziraphale can't help but be pleased at the suggestion that he might be eager for his company. The demon slips in opposite him, long legs stretched out just on the edge of blocking an aisle.

"I got your invitation. Special occasion, is it? You kind of look like you're up to something?" There's a crooked half-smile to go with the words, a gentle rise of eyebrows, teasing and comfortable, which warms Aziraphale inside.

"I've no idea what you mean," Aziraphale tells him, though he is smiling rather hard, which seems to convince Crowley that whatever it is can wait until he's ready to share.

Aziraphale decides on the soup, and a warm, crunchy baguette with fresh butter. Crowley decides on coffee, leaving him space to lean and watch Aziraphale eat while they discuss the food, sea travel, whether cats can be trusted, and then the likelihood of future architects re-designing modern classics. A waitress returns once Aziraphale has finished to bring them tea, more coffee, and two pieces of caramel shortbread.

Crowley is still regarding him suspiciously every so often, likely because Aziraphale can't quite hide how excited he is about the prospect of pleasing Crowley with a gift once they've finished. But then there are only crumbs and half a cup of his tea left, and no more excuses. 

Aziraphale wipes his mouth with a napkin and clears his throat.

"Yes, well, I took it upon myself to - I do hope you won't be cross with me. It took me quite a while to - but it seemed so obvious once I thought of it." He gives up on trying to explain, because it's clearly going terribly. "It'll be easier if I just show you." He pulls the box he'd carefully acquired out of his pocket. They'd insisted on putting it in a box, traditional he supposes, considering the sort of ring it is. He'd chosen the black velvet one immediately, with a smile and a noise of satisfaction, Crowley would have insisted on it, he was sure of it.

He turns the box on the white tablecloth and dramatically pops it open with a smile.

Crowley's spoon hits his cup with a sharp clank.

Aziraphale had indeed spent quite a while, a few days - a week really - looking for something that he thought Crowley would like, something that would compliment the style he normally favoured, something that he'd be willing to wear. It would have to be believable after all, if it was to be used as a ruse. He'd finally chosen something in titanium, with curving black lines that twisted into each other, in a way he can't help but think is rather serpentine. It had seemed so perfect for Crowley that Aziraphale had bought it on the spot.

It's definitely striking, sitting there tucked in the white interior. The black and the silver both seem to catch the light, and he can see it reflected perfectly in Crowley's glasses.

"I do hope you like it," he says nervously. It had needed to be striking, of course, so people noticed it. That was its purpose after all, to give Crowley something to quickly fend off the amorous intentions of others. But it also had to be striking because Crowley himself was always so very present, so vivid, how could anything Aziraphale bought for him be anything less? 

Crowley has gone very still, and though his eyes are hidden, the position of his head suggests that he's staring at where Aziraphale's fidgeting hands are currently curled around the box, rather than at his slightly nervous face. There's a spill of coffee on the white tablecloth that's spreading slowly.

"Ngk."

"I tried so very hard to find something you'd like," Aziraphale admits. "You can be so particular about what you wear, and I buy things for you so rarely. You so rarely let me do things for you."

" _Aziraphale_." Crowley's voice sounds oddly thick, as if his caramel shortbread hadn't gone down quite right. Really, how many times does he have to remind him to chew his food?

"It is alright, isn't it?" Aziraphale presses. "I'd hate for you to wear something you dislike."

"No, I - I love it," Crowley says, sounding like someone has squeezed all the air out of his body, and Aziraphale can't help but smile at him, terribly pleased, because he's usually so resistant to admit things like that. As if liking things is a weakness to be exploited.

"Oh, I'm so happy, I know how you're always so reluctant to be honest when you like something. I was so worried. Oh, may I?" Aziraphale holds a hand out, makes a 'give me one of yours' gesture, because though he's absolutely certain it will fit it's always best to make sure.

Crowley puts his cup down rather more harshly than is good for it, splashing more coffee on the table in the process. He swallows, thickly, and slides his pale, long-fingered hand across the table. It's shaking a little, and honestly this is why Aziraphale keeps insisting that he wear a proper jacket. He's never been very good at keeping his corporation's temperature up. 

It's so nice to be able to touch him, Crowley so rarely allows them this sort of intimacy, he's always so carefully contained, and Aziraphale can't help but congratulate himself on finding an excuse that lets him grasp the demon's hand.

Aziraphale plucks the ring from the box, finds the appropriate finger and slides it down slowly, before reluctantly releasing him.

"There we are, perfect," he says happily, because it's a perfect fit, as he knew it would be.

Crowley stares at it, swallowing like he's trying to remember how to speak, fingers opening and then shutting, in a way that seems to be making himself get used to the way it feels. And then his mouth slowly stretches into a very rare, and slightly awkward, full smile.

Aziraphale is pleased beyond measure, this has gone so much better than he'd hoped.

"Well, I thought if you had a ring on the appropriate hand it would give you the perfect excuse," he reasons.

The smile folds down, becomes a confused frown.

"An excuse?" Crowley says, eyebrows slowly pulling together over his glasses, his voice seems to come from a long way away. 

"Yes, a way to deflect amorous attention without forcing you to explain yourself, or make up any excuses. You said the other day that it was bothering you terribly. I thought on it a bit and decided this would be the perfect way to provide you with the means to politely refuse, when people make themselves available to you, or harass you with their numbers and so forth. I know you find it terribly annoying, the constant interruptions, the attention. So I acquired you - well armour if you like, to deflect it." Aziraphale smiles, because that was a much better explanation.

"Amorous attention, right, of course," Crowley manages, words oddly forced out.

"Oh dear, your shortbread really did go down the wrong way didn't it?" Aziraphale leans in a little, in case he requires a sharp pat on the back.

"Yes, that's it, too much shortbread," Crowley says, voice oddly scratchy and cracked. His mouth is twisting sharply down at the edges, until he seems to forcibly straighten it. "Capital idea, very convincing, well done."

"Really? I'm so happy, truly. I was worried that I'd overstepped, choosing something for you. But I never get to buy you things, when you're always finding things for me and they're always so well thought out and perfect. You know me so well, my dear, and I've felt so awful about the fact that I've never really given you anything, never taken you anywhere." Aziraphale was hoping Crowley's face would have given him some indication as to what the demon thinks about all this, but his expression is oddly stiff now, he almost looks pained. Aziraphale forges on hopefully. "I feel like you're constantly surprising me with gifts and invitations. And I've never been very good at that, but I'm going to do better. And I hope that when I invite you out somewhere that it's something you'd say yes to. I wanted so badly to hear you say yes, Crowley."

Crowley makes a broken sort of noise, and abruptly looks at his watch.

"Oh, would you look at the time, I quite forgot that I have a thing - I should go, promised someone something, and then completely forgot." His chair scrapes back as he pushes himself jerkily to his feet, unsteady as if he'd briefly forgotten how to walk.

"Crowley, you haven't even finished your coffee?" Aziraphale protests. 

"You can have it," Crowley says, straightening abruptly and shoving both hands in his pockets, the left one taking three tries to cram itself in there. Which seems to throw him a little. "I'll, ah, see you around, angel. Thanks for the - ngk - for the present."

Crowley is gone, before Aziraphale can push himself to his feet. He stops the motion half way through and sinks back into his seat, heavy with disappointment and more than a little hurt. Crowley had seemed so genuinely happy with his gift, but he'd clearly done something wrong. Made some sort of mistake that had left the demon uncomfortable.

"And he knows I don't like coffee," he mutters.


	2. Chapter 2

The door to Crowley's flat slams shut hard enough that the whole thing shakes in its frame. It doesn't make him feel any better, but at least no one can see him now. It had been hard enough driving himself back here, trying not to stare at his own hand, clenched round the wheel a fraction too hard, metal reflecting from his finger every time he moved, like it was mocking him.

"I can't believe I could be so fucking ssstupid," he hisses to his empty flat.

He pulls his glasses off his face, folds them in his hand and just holds them tightly, trying to stop his stupid corporation from trying to find a suitable reaction to the way he's feeling right now. And it pays no attention when he tells it that he's not human, and he doesn't have to feel anything if he doesn't want to. 

Because he knows he doesn't want to feel like this.

"Of course, of fucking course, it didn't mean anything," he grates out, thankful that no one can hear how wrecked his voice sounds. "You humiliated yourself, you fucking realise that don't you? You completely and totally humiliated yourself."

He staggers his way through to his office, sinks into his chair, arms falling wherever they please, and he'd cut the bloody things off if he could get away with it. Stupid limbs, they always get you into trouble eventually. 

His sunglasses are cracked in three places when he finally unclenches his fingers from around them - ignoring the ring, ignoring the ring so hard his vision blurs - and drops them on the desk.

He wants to be angry, he wants to be absolutely furious, but he's smart enough to know that's just a desperate cover for the fact that he's the one to blame, he's the who left himself so utterly exposed and vulnerable, with obvious results. It feels like someone reached in and scooped out half his insides. Humiliation, self-disgust, and misery all churning into something that feels like a punishment designed specifically for him. Because isn't it always his fault? Doesn't he always bring it upon himself in the end. 

The one thing that's keeping him going right now, the one thing that's giving him a tentative note of relief, is the fact that he wasn't stupid enough to say anything, to confess anything, to make it so much worse than it had already been. He'd been so tangled up in the unexpected, overwhelming surprise and pleasure of it. Choked up with feelings he'd thought he'd finally be able to share. He'd been deluded enough, for just a moment, to think that Aziraphale was making a gesture, was making a grand gesture, being brave for the both of them, admitting to how he felt.

_Admitting that he felt the same._

Satan, he's an idiot and he deserves this.

Crowley smacks his sunglasses off the table, until they hit the opposite wall, and three cracks turns into twelve pieces now scattered across the floor.

"You should have known better," he hisses at himself, mouth curling in disgust. "You should have remembered what you are, and what he is. How did you think that was going to go, eh? You're a demon, he's an angel, and you've never met a good thing you couldn't fuck up."

What makes it worse, is that he finally has the friendship he's always wanted, they're finally free to spend time with each other, to properly enjoy each other's company for as long as they like, without worrying about their respective home offices, without the fear of punishment. Aziraphale had even started cautiously reaching out, freely admitting when he was pleased to see him, no longer hiding how happy Crowley's company made him.

Of course Crowley was going to want more, and of course he was going to be disappointed - _of course he was going to ruin everything_.

There's no point being angry at Aziraphale, he knows the angel, he can be a bastard but not this much of one. This isn't just putting the knife in, this is twisting it and dragging it out, and then sticking it in again. He can't help the hurt though, at being so obliviously and completely devastated, by the one person he actually loves.

Crowley's hand is still shaking, and the ring is still shining, still sitting awkward and new on his third finger, and Hell help him, something in his chest still clenches at the sight of it. At how it had felt, before it all fell to pieces. He should pull it off and throw it away. He doesn't need it, he doesn't want the constant reminder of that humiliating, devastating mistake.

But -

But Aziraphale had chosen it for him. He'd thought of him, he'd likely wandered from shop to shop, driving the staff completely mad, trying to find a ring that he'd thought was just right for him. The angel had put effort in, Crowley knows that, he would have wanted something Crowley liked, that he'd be willing to wear. Aziraphale is terrible at buying gifts. It had probably taken him days. How the fuck is he supposed to just throw it away?

"It didn't even occur to him," he says, more quietly, as if he's arguing with part of himself now. "He just thought he was doing something nice. Just trying to do something nice for me for a change." And he probably thinks he'd fucked that up now as well, the way Crowley had practically run out of there. 

How could he have ever thought Aziraphale would mean it seriously? Now the angel is free and he can make his own decisions, his own choices - why would he ever make this one?

It's a stupid tradition anyway, a human thing, twisted up with expectations and judgements and far too many rules. Easy to break, to dismiss, to throw away. So far removed from a true joining that it might as well mean nothing at all.

He doesn't care.

He shouldn't care.

~

Aziraphale doesn't hear from Crowley for several days. Which ordinarily wouldn't worry him. The demon certainly has his own life after all, his own interests, his own adventures to enjoy. But he can't shake the heavy, disheartened feeling in his chest, hurt and a tad guilty, as if they'd had an argument. It makes no sense, clearly they hadn't quarrelled, Crowley had even thanked him for the gift. And he'd seemed perfectly willing to meet up again at some point in the future, for dinner, or drinks, or perhaps something new, now they have the time, now that no one is watching and it's just the two of them. There are so many new things they could try together, and Aziraphale can't pretend he isn't excited by the prospect.

The unsettled feeling stays with him though, an uncomfortable weight as he rearranges the stacks, so the least attractive books are the most prominent, attempting to create a gloomy and foreboding atmosphere without it actually being unpleasantly gloomy and foreboding. It's something of a challenge, but he's always appreciated those.

But after a long day, the only gloomy thing is him. So he pops his jacket on and determines that he'll use the crisp late afternoon air to revitalise himself, to try and shake the strange mood that's been dogging him. 

He stops by a coffee shop that has cocoa on the menu. He's not a fan of the cardboard containers but it's gradually getting colder out, and cocoa sounded delightful. He indulges himself with a custard tart as well, as he thinks he's worked more than hard enough to earn it.

He's almost home when he sees it.

It's a display in a shop window, an advertisement for a jewellers playing on a loop, it's not very long, twenty second at most. A man goes down on one knee, a small jewellery box in his hand, that he pops open with a nervous smile. The woman opposite him looks startled, before she smiles widely in absolute delight, covers her mouth with one hand, and enthusiastically holds out the other.

Aziraphale's cup of cocoa and custard tart slip out of his grasp, and end up on the ground. 

He's an absolute bloody idiot.

~

Crowley has exhausted himself yelling at his plants. As hard as he'd looked, not a single one of them had committed a sin grievous enough to be ejected from the room and stuffed down the disposal. Though they are currently practising stillness in a way that he's fairly sure is actually traumatic shock.

That or they're pretending to be dead. Can plants pretend to be dead?

Either way, he's put the fear of Crowley into them, and he hasn't thought about the ring on his finger for least eight minutes -

_Satan fucking damn it._

He's trying to decide if he can work up another head of steam when someone knocks on his door.

No one knocks on his door, he doesn't have a door so people can _knock_ on it. He has a door so he can shut himself away in his flat and not be bothered. He has a door so he has something to ward that tells him when other demons are trying to break in. He has a door to give his hallway character. He does not have a door for knocking. The only person who would knock on his door is -

\- Aziraphale.

For a panicked handful of seconds Crowley debates whether he could take a literal leaf out of the plants example and pretend to be dead. Then he aggressively berates himself for cowardice, drags himself off of the floor and goes to answer it.

Aziraphale is a pale cloud of apology and nerves on the other side of the door, which has never been warded against him and never will be. He waits for Crowley's judgement, rather than greeting him, or moving to come inside, which suggests he wants to explain, or apologise, both of which seem fairly awful prospects if he's being honest. But Crowley's never turned Aziraphale away yet, so he pulls the door open wider and steps aside in invitation. Then he braces himself for what he knows is going to be a thoroughly miserable conversation.

"It wasn't a proposal," Aziraphale blurts out, as soon as he's actually inside the flat.

Crowley sucks in a breath sharply.

"Satan's fucking tits, Aziraphale, I _know_ that," he grates out, pushing the door shut behind him a little harder than necessary. Because if he chooses to be anything other than angry right now he's not sure what his face will do. He doesn't trust it enough without the glasses. He was hoping he'd be able to quietly die of humiliation in peace, then meet up with Aziraphale at some point later, when he felt less like he'd been flayed open and had all his soft insides thoroughly mocked. He'd hoped the angel would have forgotten about the whole thing by then.

Aziraphale's face twists, as if he realises that starting that way had been the wrong choice. He holds his hands up, as if he's asking Crowley to wait for him to do better. Though Crowley hasn't moved.

"I mean, it wasn't meant to be a proposal, and I didn't realise how it may have looked until it was brought to my attention later. I honestly didn't understand why it made you so uncomfortable until yesterday. There was a display, and it all became very obvious. What I'd done, what you must have thought of me." 

Aziraphale looks so physically pained that Crowley tries desperately to think of some way to play it down, to casually dismiss the idea. To give no indication at all that the angel had done anything untoward to his vulnerable insides.

"It's fine, angel. I figured you weren't serious when you kept insisting it was a ruse, and looking so damned pleased with yourself." He goes to put his hands in his pockets instinctively, but that's not as easy a movement as it used to be. He ends up flailing a little, eventually just crosses his arms instead. Which is not a protective gesture, thank you very much. "You threw me a bit is all. You don't just casually give someone an engagement ring as a bloody present." Because maybe the angel sort of deserves to squirm for a bit. He made Crowley look like an utter fool, cut his legs out from under him when he was stupidly full of hope, and he's not sure he would forgive anyone else for that. But it's Aziraphale - it's _Aziraphale_ , and he's hopelessly, stupidly in love with him. 

Aziraphale winces, and then nods jerkily, like he absolutely deserves that.

Crowley is just desperately hoping that Aziraphale had been too busy crowing over his clever plan to remember how stupidly happy Crowley had looked about the whole thing. He'd been wearing his glasses, it probably hadn't been obvious. He was probably fine.

Aziraphale is still nodding, like he can't stop. "Yes, I know, it was very stupid of me, I owe you an apology -"

"You're forgiven," Crowley says tightly, before the angel can stumble over more explanations that are liable to be deeply uncomfortable for the both of them. This is familiar enough, this is a pattern they've been through before. Aziraphale does or says something stupid, without thinking, and Crowley forgives him. 

But the angel has clearly built himself some sort of argument this time, and won't be dissuaded.

"You mustn't let me off so easily," Aziraphale protests. "I made a terrible mistake, and I thought at first that perhaps it hadn't occurred to me because I rarely think of us as human, for all the ways we've gone native, for all the habits we've adopted, or acquired, that's not who we really are underneath. But that was just an excuse, the amount of proposals we've been witness to. Honestly, it was the interruptions that made me so determined, the interruptions that never seemed to care that you already had company, that never seemed to care that you seemed uncomfortable, touching you without your permission, expecting things from you. You always seemed to treat that like work, when you did Hell's bidding, and I know you've found it irritating that it continued after we, well, retired in dramatic fashion." Aziraphale frowns so deeply it's almost a scowl. "And I thought, if I just found you something perfect, if I found you something - something that would protect you from that. And perhaps wires were crossed in this huge, stupid brain of mine, and that's the reason I didn't notice. Because you mean so much to me, and once I realised where I'd gone wrong, the thought that I'd done something so - and that it had meant _nothing_ \- "

Crowley gives a hitching sound of protest, as if he's trying to stop the words, to stop Aziraphale from saying them. 

"It's fine," he manages thinly, not entirely sure if it is, or if Aziraphale wants it to be any more.

"It is not _fine_ ," Aziraphale snaps, insistent and surprisingly loudly. It's so unexpected that Crowley finds himself swaying backwards a little, mouth closing abruptly.

The angel takes a breath, forcibly stops his hands from trying to squeeze themselves together.

"It's not fine, because then I couldn't help but think about someone else giving a ring to you, something perfect that they'd spent days picking out just for you. I thought of you reacting that way for them instead of me, of you being that happy because of something someone else did. When I had done it all wrong without even understanding. The thought of you being with someone else, choosing someone else, Crowley, I couldn't bear it." The admission pushes colour all the way up Aziraphale's face. "I couldn't bear it," he says again, as if he refuses to bow to cowardice. "Because you were mine, you - you've always been mine. And I know how terribly selfish that sounds, how _awful_ , because of course you weren't."

Crowley makes a noise, something that breaks out of his throat without his permission. And he doesn't know what to say to that, how is he supposed to respond to that? When most of him just wants to claw the angel closer, and demand that he say it again? Because it's true for Crowley, it's been true for longer than he can remember. It's not supposed to be true for Aziraphale too.

Aziraphale is watching him, and he looks surprised, which suggests he's reading something on Crowley's stupidly naked face. 

"Crowley," the angel says breathlessly, and it sounds like a fucking revelation. "Would you have - would you have hated it, if it had meant something?" he asks, and it seems to take him a lot of courage to force the words out. He looks a little overwhelmed at the end, afraid, like he's broken something.

How is Crowley supposed to answer that.

How is he supposed to just admit that he would have done _anything_ -

"No," he says, the word croaking out of him before he can stop it, and it feels a lot like pulling a bramble all the way through his guts. "No, I wouldn't." He can't add any more words, that's all the messy, painful honesty the angel gets.

But it seems to be enough, in some way, seems to be what Aziraphale wants, because his whole body stops vibrating, his hands stop squeezing, he stops looking like an uncomfortable man who has to give bad news and instead just looks quietly stunned. Before his expression opens out into the sort of smile Crowley had scoured book fairs for hours to try and draw out of him.

"Oh," he says simply.

And Crowley hates the way that's all he says for a long moment, while his vulnerable, exposed feelings are left hanging out there for everyone to see.

"I would have done better, if I'd known," Aziraphale says at last, hopeful and tentative. "I would have done it right."

Crowley grunts something, rather than reply, mostly because he's not sure he can.

Aziraphale looks down, suddenly, at Crowley's curled hand. 

"Though I'm very happy to see that you're still wearing it."

Of course he is. Of course. Crowley's done nothing else but wear it for three and a half days now. 

"You gave it to me," he points out, as if that's all he needs to say.

Aziraphale very slowly reaches a hand out, and his fingers are warmer than Crowley's, smooth and soft. They haven't touched enough for it to be familiar, which is a thought that hurts him, after all this time, at how rarely they've touched each other in six thousand years.

"It looks very fetching on you," Aziraphale tells him, as if the gentle squeeze and drift of his fingers isn't a strangely new and exciting intimacy between them. He thumbs the line of the ring and Crowley shivers.

"Aziraphale -"

Aziraphale doesn't let him finish.

"I want you to keep it. I want you to wear it, I want it to mean everything it's supposed to. Is that - is that alright?"

_Is that alright?_

"Do you -" Crowley swallows, hard, tries to stop himself from saying what he's clearly going to say, but his mouth is no longer following instructions from his brain. "Do you want one too. If I was to get you one, would you want it - would you wear it?" He's lost track of what's too much, of what's too fast. It's never been easy to work out what Aziraphale wants, what he really wants. He's certain that Aziraphale is going to say no.

"That would make me very happy," Aziraphale says instead, all in one breath.

Crowley isn't sure what's happening right now.

He may have just got engaged.

He may now be engaged to the angel he's been in love with for almost six thousand years, and he's not even certain how it happened.

He's too terrified to question it, if he's being honest.

"Right, good, that's good, that's really good. You want to drink some wine, celebrate and so forth?" That's expected isn't it? That's what you do when you've decided you're going to - _unite your energies_ \- no, shit, he can't phrase it like that. That's too much, that's so much more than Aziraphale has tentatively agreed to here. 

But Aziraphale smiles at him, smiles and gives a short, breathless laugh.

"Of course, only, would you like it if I - that is to say, I don't know if it's a thing you're interested in. Would it be alright if I kissed you?" he asks quietly.

"Ngk." That was not fucking helpful. Crowley tries again, only this time with more words. "Yeah, I mean, I do, want that. You could do that, if you wanted to, I wouldn't say no." 

Aziraphale smiles, as if he was hoping Crowley would agree, as if it's something he's thought about, something he's wanted. Which is honestly too much right now. But the angel is already moving in and tilting his head, pressing the warmth of his beautiful mouth against Crowley's crooked one, like he expects them to fit together.

It turns out they do.

Aziraphale sighs into him, and that firm press of mouth slowly melts everything tight inside Crowley's chest, until he's making a soft, helpless sort of noise in his throat, whole body slowly leaning into the angel. Because he's kissing Aziraphale, he's kissing Aziraphale and they're engaged, so he's allowed to do that now, and it's suddenly a lot - it's a lot.

The angel eases away. "I'm sorry that I made a mess of things," he says quietly, still close enough to Crowley's mouth that he can feel every word. "I'm sorry that it took me so long."

Crowley shakes his head. "No, you don't have to -"

Aziraphale kisses him quiet, before easing away again.

"You do know that I love you dearly?"

Crowley drags in a breath, feels it core its way down his throat. 

" _Aziraphale_ ," he says, and that's all he can manage, when the angel deserves so much more. This is the part where he's supposed to confess, the part where he's supposed to tell him that he loves him, that he's always loved him. Only he's spent so long choking it down, hiding it, knowing it was too dangerous for both of them, and he can't, _he can't_. But Aziraphale's expression opens, as if he'd heard everything anyway, as if he knows him well enough to understand.

The angel lifts both hands and holds him where he is, doesn't let him move away.

"You're the only person who knows me, who really knows me -" _and still loves me_ , he doesn't say that part, but it's there all the same. "For all my foibles, and all my faults, and I find that I wouldn't give you up for anything."

He wouldn't be Aziraphale if there wasn't the sharpest edge of threat in that confession, a willingness to fight for him if necessary, and Crowley falls in love with him all over again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Good Intentions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27488896) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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